


the dreamers of the day are dangerous men

by spock



Category: Alien (Prequel Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Canon Compliant, Dreams, M/M, Power Imbalance, Pre-Canon, Relationship Study, Robot/Human Relationships, Slice of Life, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-24
Packaged: 2021-01-02 04:55:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21155954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spock/pseuds/spock
Summary: Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake up in the day to find it was vanity, but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible.˙ʎןןɐnbǝ ʇou ʇnq :ɯɐǝɹp uǝɯ ןןɐ





	the dreamers of the day are dangerous men

**Author's Note:**

  * For [M J Holyoke (wholeyolk)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wholeyolk/gifts).

He's had a recurring dream for most of his life; himself and a man standing together on a hill, one high enough for the fog to hide whatever lies below. It's hard for Peter to maintain the man's attention, his gaze cast down, seeming to see what Peter cannot.

His distraction eats at Peter. The length of the dream varies, but without fail, Peter's patience reaches its breaking point just before he wakes. _David_.

There are times when Peter catches sight of him in his peripheral vision, his subconscious mind searching always for this man that he can't seem to rid from his mind.

As a child, he'd assumed him to be his son. Puberty brought questions of him being Peter's soulmate.

Yesterday had been the dubbing of Peter’s knighthood, and in the crowd he'd caught sight of a man that had fallen short when Peter had turned to inspect him properly, the same as all the rest.

—

For the past four months, production has been delivering him tri-daily reports detailing their failed headway on the intra-cranial control unit problem. Peter picks at them, frustrated with himself for needing to rely on others. For being unable to solve this himself in the first place.

October looms ever closer, yet Peter's hopes for a shared birthday continue to be especially bleak. The First of October sees him on a plane. The looming expectation of his second Nobel nomination, and the subsequent increased media attention that trails along with it, has ensured that it's a commercial flight.

They cross from one timezone to another. Peter's birthday comes and goes. He stares at the code illuminating the screen of his tablet, Sisyphus rolling his boulder up the hill.

"Happy Birthday, Mr Weyland."

Peter grits his teeth and forces a pleasant smile onto his face. He rather should have taken his private jet, nevermind the press. "Why, thank you."

He returns his attention to his work. The man speaking to him fails to move from where he’s standing to the side of Peter’s seat, gazing at the tablet himself. "Forgive me," he says, hesitance clear, though it fails to dissuade him intruding further. "My English, it is — you speak Japanese?"

Peter does.

The man's name is Saito. He has some interesting ideas about consciousness.

**january 7th, 2025**

Peter stares at his creation. He finds himself moved, in a way, and is surprised. Sentimentality has failed to play a part in any aspect of his life — except for this, he supposes, for what could this be beyond the ultimate manifestation of sentiment?

He's dreamed of this. Of this man his entire life, sure, but of this specific moment now too. None other than God has created life on their own, and yet here Peter stands, an equal to them all.

There isn't a facet of this project that wasn't directly influenced by Peter's hand, and yet none had felt so tangibly real as it does now, at this moment. What words could one say, the first imparted onto the next step of evolution?

He watches as the man's pupils dilate, the blue-grey of his irises something that took five weeks of Peter's life to perfect. They stare at him now, focused and direct.

"How do you feel?" It isn't what he'd planned to say. The words tumble out of him, an unknown that he finds he must know the answer to.

The answer is given to him promptly: "Alive."

—

After so long a time, it's so immensely satisfying to hear the man call himself David.

—

"Mr Weyland."

David can't seem to master a questioning tone. It's something that Peter has noticed, and that he'll see addressed in the next iteration. As it stands, he quite likes the directness; it's a soothing beacon within the Californian uptalk in which he finds himself regularly inundated.

"David?"

Hands come up to smooth the shoulders of his jacket, fingers straightening his tie. The lines of him are left immaculate. David can manage little else.

"Mr Delos will conclude his presentation in fifty-five seconds. You might want to enter then."

David does not give directions. This is not something programmed in him, but rather an adjustment that he's adopted by analyzing Peter's temperament. It amuses Peter to no end, to be so thusly catered to.

"Might I?" Peter asks. It garners no reaction, David staring at him plainly. He's learned not to answer rhetorical questions as well, though it was an uphill battle at times. Peter himself isn't quite so fast to adapt, still unused to seeing those eyes during his waking hours.

He licks his lips, entranced. There must be ten or so seconds left before he's due to give his talk. "Pinch me," he says, more or less to himself.

David does. It's far gentler than Peter would have been, especially with the degree of strength David posses at his fingertips.

It does the trick. Peter blinks and feels his usual amused-arrogance rise up within him. "It's a figure of speech."

"I am aware."

Affection is an emotion that has never come easy to Peter, though he feels it now. He strokes the back of his hand across David's cheek. David's rise as his assistant had not gone unnoticed. Those not privy to the project, both inside and out of the Company, assume them to be fucking. Peter quite relishes the accusation.

**january 1st, 2028**

The second model had been ready six months ago, but Peter has remained adamant that the transfer of consciousness from one unit to the next be a feature that is non-negotiable.

Peter worries at his thumb-nail as he stands at his bedside, David laid out across the sheets, waiting for him to boot up.

David blinks, his pupils contracting.

"How do you feel?"

Those eyes turn to look at him. "Like myself."

Laughter titters from his lungs in an awkward huff, unexpected and without restraint. "However could that feel, I wonder?"

David sits up, turning so that his feet rest on the floor. It leaves Peter standing between his legs. "I often think the same thing about you, Mr Weyland."

"Call me Peter." He says it without thinking.

The update has given David's face a much wider range of emotions through which to express himself. Disbelief suits his features well.

"Sparingly," Peter amends, unwilling to admit fault so thoroughly as to backtrack completely.

"Quite."

—

The II Series will be the first to interact with the average person. Peter holds a conference to present the first cybernetic individual on the world’s stage, the press eating it up, fingers flying across their keyboards. With the data gathered from this ongoing experiment, Weyland Corporation will see that the eventual commercial use of synths will be a seamless eventuality.

The reveal goes well; four men step onto the stage looking identical to Peter's now-famous assistant. David is silent at his side, professional.

In one fell swoop, every word they've typed is left meaningless, due to be erased. The framing of this particular story has to be completely remapped.

—

"If you don't mind me saying, sir," David says, a trademark precursor for anything he knows will likely enflame Peter's temper, "You have a tendency for the dramatic."

"I don't mind it at all." Peter reaches for the handle and steps out of the car before David has the time to exit himself and get the door for him. "It's true, after all."

—

Peter is on a hill. At first he thinks that he's on his own, but then he spots movement from the corner of his eye. David is close to the edge, looking down at something.

"David," he calls, voice sharp. "Come here."

The order goes ignored. Anger flares within him. He stalks to David, hand raised to snatch the man back. Before he can make contact with David's shoulder, David turns in an instant, catching Peter's arm in a vice grip.

"Peter."

He blinks at the fuzzy visage of David's face. He's crouched down at the side of Peter's bed. The bedside light is on. It is for Peter's benefit and not his own; David was designed to have perfect visibility in the dark.

"I've dreamed about you."

David nods. "You called for me."

Peter is tempted to correct him, but thinks the better of it just as quickly, the need to finally rid himself of his lifelong secret passing. It would do no good for David to know that his existence was all but prophetic.

He'd considered himself an atheist, once. Now he spends far too much time seeing himself in old myths.

What would it mean? Peter finds himself wondering, more and more, if the whole of his existence was meant to give life to David.

"David," he says. "Come, get into bed with me."

Within the past few months David has learned that economical movement is not always preferable to that which is expedient. He climbs up onto the bed via his hands and knees, crawling over Peter in order to lay on the uninhabited side.

Peter rolls over so that they can look at one another. The dream is still fresh in his mind, as is the general melancholia that seems to pervade his moods as of late.

"David," he asks, suddenly overcome with a need to have his philosophical lamentations indulged. "What would you say is the most important thing in this world?"

David takes a moment to think, but only that. His mind works so much faster than any of their own; Peter knows better than to find it impressive. It’s just how David is built.

"Why," David says, "you, sir."

It brings Peter up short. It shouldn't. David exists because Peter saw fit for him to. His sense of being is inextricably tied to serving Peter and his whims, so much so that he'd go mad without such purpose.

"What is the most important thing in your world, David?"

"You, sir." He answers nearly as soon as Peter has finished phrasing the question, processing not required.

Peter surges into the space between them and takes David's face between the palms of his hands, bringing their lips together.

David knows how to kiss; Peter wrote the code for it himself. It's the first time David's ever had cause to execute it, but he does a fine job for his first go ‘round. He cradles Peter's face much more gently than Peter manipulates David's own. His legs come up to wrap around Peter's sides, knees tucking themselves high, touching Peter's bent elbows.

It leaves David's ass in the perfect position for Peter to rut up against, hips working as frantically as his mouth. David isn't so much as breathing hard, kissing Peter back with calm resolve. Peter finds all of it endlessly intoxicating.

He reaches the peak of his arousal rather quickly, but finds himself struggling to tumble over the edge. "David," he calls, rather mindlessly, issuing a command without knowing its end.

David's hands release Peter's face and reach down to grab at the back of Peter's thighs. His grip is firm, almost bruising. He takes control of Peter's movements, manipulating the once erratic motion into precise thrusts, all of them equidistantly spaced and of uniform pressure. Peter's felt nothing like it in his life, a mechanical spin to fucking that only a machine could achieve.

Peter spends himself quickly thereafter, gasping through his orgasm directly into David's mouth, breathing air into one whom has never needed it.

**june 30th, 2035**

Series III's release was meant to coincide with the patent suit victory, but in the end Peter decides against it. His forecasters predicted that it would take an age for commercial restrictions against androids to be lifted, and they'd proven right. In the meantime, they'd been able to stockpile updates as demand built and built.

Transferring David into his latest body is far less stressful the second time around, though Peter can't stop himself from asking David how feels once he's awoken.

"New and improved."

Irony is a feature of the new model. Peter feels an instant need to dial it back, but he supposes he owes it to the software team to see if it grows on him.

—

"— Athens," David lists next, and Peter scoffs at the thought.

"If they wanted me there they should have pushed it up to when I was in town two months ago."

David nods. He steps closer to Peter, pushing the cup of tea that Peter's been nursing away from the edge of his desk.

"Cairo."

This, Peter considers. He's always loved Egypt. He hasn't been in over a decade; a long enough time that David's never been at all.

"Schedule that one in," he decides. "I think we can manage it. It'll be the first office in the north of Africa, won't it?"

David touches his shoulder in confirmation. He walks back over to the side of the room and takes up his tablet, returning to his work, leaving Peter to his own.

—

July passes slowly now that he has a tangible date to look forward to. David undoubtedly notices his impatience but knows better than to comment on it.

When they arrive it's strange to see what must have been a similar sense of enrapture the first time he’d arrived in-country reflected across David's face. "Was surprise included in your latest deployment?" Peter asks.

The airfield has the city and pyramids to one side of it, and the vastness of the desert to the other. David stares out at all the endless sand. "No, sir," he answers. His eyes don't so much as flicker in Peter's direction.

"David."

The change is quick, David's face returning to its usual blank state, total focus returning to Peter. "Sir?"

Peter licks his lips. "I'm not in the mood for people right now."

David nods, face impassive. "Where would you like to go?"

"To the house, I think."

Peter's fond of his Egyptian property. His domicile on the Luna settlement is modeled after it, a small bit of nostalgia he’d allowed himself to mark such a grand achievement for man; it felt fitting that the oldest civilization be reflected on the first frontier of the new.

David knows the layouts of all of Peter's homes regardless of if he’s been there not, the knowledge baked into that endless supply of memory of his.

"Are you hungry, sir?" David asks as he opens the door for Peter, letting them into the entryway.

"No," he says, an idea occuring to him. "Actually, David, how about we watch a film? I have something else I’d like to share with you"

—

David's hand reaches between them and takes Peter's own, a first. His head tilts toward Peter slightly, and his eyes flicker back and forth between Peter and the screen. "Peter," he says, his voice lowered, as if they were in a theatre full of people that might overhear.

Peter shushes him.

**april 1st, 2042**

The announcement is taken as a corporate gag, which is what Peter intends. It makes the press all the more effusive when people walk into the Weyland retail locations the following day and find that the IV model is available for purchase after all.

—

"Hey, synth! Come over here for a second."

David doesn't stop, though Peter does. The executive shouting at them seems to realize his mistake instantly.

"David — sir, I'm so sorry. I thought you were a unit."

"Understandable." David looks to Peter, waiting for them to resume on their journey.

Peter can't find himself to be so forgiving. "If you can't differentiate within our product line then what fucking good are you, William?"

"Mr Weyland —"

"Piss off."

Peter forgets where they were originally going and instead heads for the elevator. David, the bastard, keeps pace with him effortlessly without seeming so agitated in his gait.

The doors close behind them, and Peter emits an aggravated breath. "We're done for the day, I believe."

"Sir." David is likely going through all the appointments Peter has effectively canceled, quick mind of his coming up with ways to shift the upcoming week to re-accommodate them.

Peter suddenly can’t stand how unaffected David is all the time. "Remind me to have them put some fucking self-esteem into the next update, David, for gods sake."

"I would advise against that, sir." David levels him with a look through the reflection of the elevator's door, head steadfastly positioned forward. "I fear we wouldn't get along as well nearly as we currently do."

They step out into the carpark. A unit has already summoned Peter's car. David ignores it, holding the door for him. Peter stares at its unfamiliar face and wonders how anyone could ever confuse something so empty for all the complexity that is David.

The ride back to the house is quiet, Peter fighting with himself within the confines of his own mind.

"Would you have any qualms about me customizing myself, sir?"

Peter licks at his teeth and keeps his opinions to himself.

**july 7th, 2052**

"Congratulations on the 5 series, sir."

Peter can't bring himself to pay much notice to the commercial release cycle any longer. The Fives are about congruent with where David was at during his III Series days.

"Yes, well," Peter trails off, too engrossed with the proposal one of his engineers has drafted for a dialectical implant. "It isn't as if they hold a candle to you, do they, David?"

The air inside of the office shifts. Peter glances up and is surprised to see the self-satisfied look on David's face.

"One compliment has you that pleased?" Peter could ask the same of himself — he wonders when he'll stop being so fascinated by his own creation.

"It's only that you dole them out so sparingly, sir."

Peter rolls his eyes. "Fetch me a coffee."

David gives him a smile full of teeth. His mouth has always been a point of interest for Peter, dating back to his youth and the start of the dreams. It had been the first feature he'd outlined when drafting up David's body. The white of his teeth, the blue of his eyes, seem all the more brighter now that he's been making himself a blond.

Peter rather likes the longer length of it as well.

"Keep your expressions to yourself, thank you."

"Sir."

The coffee is doctored exactly how Peter likes it, the same as it's been for years. David's been in his life longer than any other being; it's long surpassed the point where another could ever come to compare.

—

The board raises the issue of an heir.

Peter rather resents the implication that he won't sort out immortality by the time succession becomes sort of an issue.

"Come up with some kind of plan then, I suppose."

Still, he's vain enough to like the idea of a Weyland always having a seat on the board. His ultimate hope, save his own continued existence, is of course for David to carry on what he started. Barring that, a blood relative seems the minimum that Peter might request.

In the end, the most memorable part of the experience is David's unfettering creativity as he assists in collecting Peter's sperm.

**february 26th, 2062**

Only 7% of humans are able to tell that the newest units aren't human.

Some days, Peter himself is amongst them.

Most others, he's the first to make sure that David himself isn't.

**july 6th, 2068**

The Seventh Generation is regarded as just that, a move suggested by marketing to reflect how ubiquitous unites have become throughout the workforce and homes all across multiple planets. People are giving the units their own names now.

Peter is of a mind to fire the entire department.

"It's common to become averse to change as we age, sir."

Peter will be turning seventy-eight in three months. He does not appreciate David's insinuation in the least. Most especially since David hasn't changed at all from the original mold Peter cast for him, save for the hair.

David is sat on the floor, massaging Peter's legs with even, firm movements. Standing is starting to tire Peter more and more, though his doctors insist he has at least twenty more years in him.

"Please, David, explain aging to me."

David gives him a look he was once much better at masking. It would seem the passage of time has changed him in his own way.

Peter returns the courtesy, though his face struggles to be as expressive as it once was.

—

David is looking at something, his back to Peter. Peter tries to get his attention, but his body feels far too heavy.

"This one looks promising, sir."

Peter blinks, realizing that he'd dozed off for a moment. David rematerializes in front of his eyes as he is now. Sometimes the only thing that helps to keep him grounded is the blond of David's hair. In Peter's dreams, he remains unchanged.

"Which one is that?"

David never seems bothered by Peter's failing body. It makes Peter resent him; to say that Peter is bothered by it himself would be putting it mildly. David's endless patience comes almost as if it were due, as if Peter's life coming to its inevitable end will be little more than a blip in the limitless span of David's own.

He's being unfair.

Not that being fair has ever been something Peter has been accused of.

"Doctors Holloway and Shaw's proposal, sir."

Peter stares at him blankly. David saves either of them from having to suffer through what will happen should Peter be forced to inquire as to a clarification.

"The Engineers theory."

"Ah," Peter says. "Well, schedule an appointment."

**june 2090**

_In all the most meaningful ways, beyond the messy clutter of foolish procreation, David is my one true offspring and the caretaker who will protect my legacy in this world and the next._

Old age has softened him. He reads over the memorandum he’s drafted for David’s next update and feels infinitely melancholy. It feels only yesterday that he’d brought David to life to begin with.

"David," he calls out. In a moment he is at Peter's side, attentive. "Read over this."

It takes him microseconds, if that. Something shifts within his eyes. "Sir, this is very kind."

Peter stares at him for a long moment. "Your feelings are hurt," he notes. "Or you estimate that they should be, anyway. Why is that?"

It used to be that David would ask Peter questions about the intricacies of emotion. Now it feels like David's the one teaching him. Perhaps the lack of a soul allows one to reach new depths within the psyche, death a shackle holding the rest of them back. Holding Peter back.

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

Peter frowns. "Since when have you kept secrets from me, David?"

"Haven't I always?" His tone is light, a joke, though Peter wonders if it's the most honest thing David's ever said to him. "Perhaps you still need to get used to this model's range of expression."

"Perhaps." He shifts in his seat. "Come, help me stand. I'd like to go outside."

They're at the house in Scotland, the air supposedly good for his health. Peter rather thinks that it does something for his mind. He's always felt the most alert here. Given that his mind has grown more prone to drifting as his hundredth birthday grows ever-closer, remaining feels almost a necessity.

The fog has rolled in for the afternoon; although they aren't that high above the sea, it takes little to leave everything beyond the modest garden that David manages to see thrive in a sea of fog.

In a few short months, he will be in perpetual sleep as they journey to find what Peter can only dare hope is the answer to eternal life. Short of that, he'll accept answers. Likely, he'll never see his home planet again. He tries to appreciate the view.

David leaves him to sit on a bench as he ventures nearer to the fog. It's so close to his dream that Peter struggles to recall how they came to be there in the first place. Had he possibly fallen asleep?

For all that sleep once served as his ultimate inspiration, it does little more but frighten him now.

"David," Peter calls out sharply.

David turns to look at him again. "Is something the matter?" He seems ready to return to Peter's side in an instant.

"No." He finds that he's embarrassed. "I've always wondered," he doesn’t bother to raise his voice, knowing that David will hear him well as if he had. Peter is eager to come up with an excuse for his outburst, "do you dream, David?" It's only then that he realizes it is a question he has always wanted to ask.

The one he's never allowed himself to.

David is visibly taken aback. He doesn't answer right away, taking his time to return to Peter's side. He sits in the grass at Peter's feet, not seeming to care at all that the mist must undoubtedly be soaking the seat of his trousers.

"I do," David says, eventually. "Though I doubt they're similar to how yours are, sir."

Peter licks his lips and tries to weigh out just how much he wants to know the answer to his next question.

To decide if the surety of a known answer is worth losing the comforting mystery of an unknown.

His need to know wins out in the end, as always.

"Am I in them?"

For the first time in the sixty-five years that they've known one another, Peter sees what affection looks like on David's face. David strokes the back of his fingers across Peter’s cheek, a fond smile ghosting his lips. "Oh Peter," he says. "No."


End file.
